SHIO 


F .  HOPKINS 


OLD   FASHIONED  FOLK 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 


BY 

F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 


PRIVATELY   PRINTED 

BOSTON 

MCMVII 


Copyright,  1907 

BY   F.  HOPKINSON  SMITH 


A   PLEA    FOR    THE    SIMPLER     LIFE 

OF    FORMER    TIMES 

DELIVERED  AT  THE  HARVARD  UNION 

CAMBRIDGE,    MASSACHUSETTS 

FEBRUARY    27,    1907 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

MY  memory  goes  back  some  forty 
years  to  a  small  room  lighted  by 
wax  candles  and  the  blaze  of  an  open 
wood  fire.  There  is  a  table  on  which 
rests  a  work-basket  and  some  books. 
Other  books  in  cases  line  the  walls 
from  floor  to  ceiling.  A  sweet  young 
granddaughter,  with  a  rose  at  her 
throat,  sits  at  the  piano  in  the  dark 
ened  corner,  running  her  fingers  over 
the  keys. 

Beside  the  table  is  a  rocking-chair, 
and  within  reach  of  the  cheery  blaze 
sits  a  woman.  Her  hair  is  gray,  — • 
a  silver-gray,  with  a  satin  sheen  where 
the  light  strikes;  her  skin  is  soft  and 
fresh;  about  her  shoulders  is  a  gossa 
mer  scarf  breaking  the  line  of  the  simple 

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OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

dress,  which  is  fastened  close  up  to 
the  throat.  Now  and  then  she  lays 
down  her  knitting  and  half  closes  her 
eyes,  listening  the  more  intently  to 
the  music  that  ripples  beneath  the 
girl's  hands. 

Soon  the  door  opens  and  the  slender 
figure  of  a  man,  with  his  spectacles 
pushed  high  up  on  his  forehead,  enters.  / 
He  walks  to  her  chair,  slips  his  hand 
with  a  loving  pat  under  her  chin,  and 
takes  the  seat  beside  her.  She  raises 
her  face,  and  a  light  breaks  over  it. 
She  has  known  the  touch  of  that  hand 
for  forty  years. 

Everywhere  is  the  atmosphere  of 
the  home,  —  the  softened  lights,  the 
cheery  blaze  of  the  logs,  the  quiet, 
the  restfulness,  the  joy  of  close  compan 
ionship.  More  than  anything  else 
there  broods  the  spirit  of  content 
ment,  —  a  contentment  that  the  wealth 
of  the  Indies  cannot  buy. 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

With  this  picture  clear  in  my  mind 
there  comes  another,  —  one  I  saw  at 
the  opera  some  few  weeks  ago.  Nor- 
dica  was  singing,  and  the  house  was 
packed  to  the  roof. 

"  A  very  brilliant  scene,"  remarked 
the  woman  on  my  left,  sweeping  the 
auditorium  with  her  opera -glass. 
"  Every  seat  is  full,  and  every  box 
crowded  except  old  Mrs.  Millions's. 
There  she  is  now !  Who's  that  with 
her  ?  Oh,  yes,  —  her  granddaughter. 
Elise  looks  lovely  in  white,  don't  you 
think  so  ?  "  and  she  handed  me  her 
glass. 

I  readjusted  the  lenses,  and  fol 
lowed  the  direction  indicated  by  her 
head.  Elise  certainly  did  look  lovely 
in  white. 

The  young  girl,  however,  did  not 
interest  me.  It  was  her  grandmother 
that  absorbed  my  attention.  Through 
the  shimmer  of  flashing  lights  and 

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OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

across  the  flower-bed  of  white  gowns 
and  pink  shoulders  in  full  bloom,  I 
could  not  realize  that  her  son  was  near 
my  own  age  and  that  her  grandson 
had  gone  to  school  with  my  boy.  Her 
poise  was  that  of  a  woman  who  was 
perfectly  at  home  in  any  and  all  at 
mospheres. 

Her  dress  suited  the  occasion,  and 
was  of  the  latest  mode;  throat  and 
neck  bare,  a  string  of  pearls  and  an 
edging  of  lace  softening  the  skin,  a 
spray  of  diamonds  surmounting  a  head 
of  hair  as  black  as  it  was  at  twenty. 
Every  few  minutes  during  the  entr' 
acte  new  figures  would  appear,  their 
white  shirt-fronts  rose-coloured  in  the 
softened  light.  Grandmother  and 
granddaughter  were  equally  gracious, 
but  the  grandmother  received  the  most 
attention,  especially  from  the  younger 
men  —  just  grown,  most  of  them. 

"  On  the  lookout  for  invitations  for 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

herTballs,"  my  lady  of  the  opera-glasses 
whispered  to  me  from  behind  her  fan. 
I  made  no  answer.  I  didn't  believe 
it,  —  not  all  of  it.  I  was  still  studying 
the  tightly  drawn  skin  and  deep  shad 
ows  under  the  eyes,  the  thin,  semi- 
transparent  ears,  the  series  of  undulat 
ing  hollows  that  lay  over  the  wide 
expanse  between  the  pearls  and  the 
edging  of  lace. 

Now  and  then,  even  at  this  distance, 
I  detected  without  the  aid  of  my  mer 
ciless  glass,  an  expression  of  weariness 
cross  her  face,  which  lingered  for  a 
moment  like  a  shadow  or  cleared  when 
some  one  of  her  guests  spoke  to  her. 

At  midnight  I  saw  her  again.  She 
was  standing  in  the  lower  lobby  wait 
ing  for  her  carriage.  Her  liveried 
footman  had  brought  a  heavy  fur  wrap, 
which  he  had  hung  about  her  neck. 
This  she  drew  closer  as  she  stood 
shivering  by  the  ever-swinging  door, 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

her  bare  shoulders  half  covered,  her  poor 
thin  ankles  chilled  to  their  brittle  bones. 
These  two  pictures  always  follow 
one  another  in  my  mind,  and  with  them 
this  question:  What  has  come  over 
our  social  conditions  in  the  last  fifty 
years  to  produce  this  change?  Why 
should  the  mother  and  grandmother 
of  to-day  turn  her  back  upon  the  sweet, 
reposeful  life  of  the  mother  and  grand 
mother  of  the  sixties  and  affect  the 
life  of  a  young  married  woman  of 
twenty  ?  Is  it  because  she  alone  could 
educate  the  granddaughter  to  take  her 
place  in  the  sphere  of  life  to  which 
she  was  born,  and  which  modern  con 
ditions  require  her  to  fill  ?  Or  was  the 
home  which  she  had  left  behind  her  a 
few  hours  before  so  dull  and  com- 
panionless,  so  devoid  of  comforts,  de 
spite  its  luxuries,  that  she  preferred 
the  glare  of  the  opera-h6use  to  her  own 
fireside?  Or  was  it  because  she  had 

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OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

set  her  pace  earlier  in  life,  and  it  bored 
her  to  put  on  the  brakes  as  she  grew 
older?  What  has  happened,  I  repeat, 
to  our  civilization,  and  through  what 
degrees  of  degeneracy  has  it  fallen, 
that  this  type  of  mother  is  so  seldom 
found  in  what  is  called  the  higher 
circles  of  our  social  life?  How  is  it 
that  this  low-voiced,  gentle  woman, 
shrinking  from  publicity,  her  fireside 
her  rostrum,  her  children  and  husband 
her  religion,  nursing  the  sick,  —  not 
with  her  check-book,  but  with  her  own 
gentle  hands,  —  thoughtful  of  her 
friends,  hospitable  to  the  stranger, 
merciful  to  her  servants,  ready  to 
praise,  speaking  ill  of  no  one,  her 
highest  ambition  to  maintain  the  tra 
ditions  of  her  blood,  —  how  is  it,  I  say, 
that  this  old-fashioned  woman  has 
been  so  largely  supplanted? 

Once  more  let  me  flash  on  the  screen 

7 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

of  my  talk  two  other  contrasting  pic 
tures  drawn  from  the  home  and  home 
life  of  this  woman  of  the  past  and  this 
woman  of  the  present. 

In  the  old  days  every  drawing-room 
door  was  open  wide  on  any  night  of 
the  week  to  whoever  might  call.  If 
the  table  was  full  at  meal-time  the  old 
butler  could  always  squeeze  in  a  place 
for  one  more,  or,  if  this  was  impossible, 
some  neighbour  and  his  wife  would  al 
ways  draw  up  outside  the  circle,  or 
wait  in  the  drawing-room  until  the 
meal  was  over,  to  take  their  places 
later  at  a  rubber  of  whist,  or  perhaps  to 
listen  to  a  quartette  in  which  the  father 
and  daughters  took  part.  No  one  had 
to  ask  whether  it  was  convenient,  — 
no  one  was  invited  two  weeks  ahead. 
Even  as  late  as  ten  o'clock  the  old 
brass  knocker  would  continue  to  re 
spond  to  the  hands  of  welcome  guests, 
the  sound  bringing  the  old  butler  to 

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OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

the  door  on  the  run,  where  he  would 
bend  low  until  they  were  ushered  into 
his  master's  presence.  Not  the  hired 
butler  for  the  night,  or  for  the  season, 
but  one  who  had  served  his  master 
and  his  master's  people  from  his  boy 
hood,  who  had  carried  every  child  on 
his  back,  and  whose  pride  in  the  family 
name  was  as  great  as  his  master's. 

Nor  were  the  young  people's  pleas 
ures  forgotten.  Almost  every  night 
during  the  winter  there  was  a  dance 
somewhere,  or  a  game  of  blind  man's 
buff,  with  all  the  mahogany  chairs  and 
big  sofas  moved  back,  the  old  people 
taking  their  share  of  the  frolic. 

At  eleven  everybody  went  home, 
the  young  men  and  young  girls  escorting 
each  other,  leaving  the  older  people 
first ;  no  fear  of  footpads,  and  no  need 
for  chaperones.  Every  young  girl  was 
the  sister  of  every  young  man  so  far  as 
protection  was  concerned.  His  re- 

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OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

sponsibility  to  her  mother  was  only 
equalled  by  his  responsibility  to  him 
self.  The  traditional  millstone  hanging 
about  the  neck  of  the  offender  of  little 
ones  would  be  light  in  weight  com 
pared  to  his  load,  and  the  depths  of  the 
sea  a  welcome  oblivion  if  he  infringed 
one  hair's  breadth.  A  young  man  who 
could  not  be  trusted  with  the  night-key 
and  the  daughter  could  not  hope  for 
social  recognition  of  any  kind. 

In  contrast  to  the  life  of  this  home 
and  its  open,  welcoming  hospitality, 
let  us  ring  the  front  door-bell  of  one  of 
our  equally  representative  mansions 
on  any  one  of  our  principal  avenues. 

If  we  have  been  invited  two  weeks  in 
advance  and  arrive  exactly  on  the 
minute,  we  will  be  welcome.  On  en 
tering,  the  butler,  after  removing  our 
coat  and  hat,  hands  us  a  tiny  white 
envelope  containing  a  card  upon  which 
is  written  the  name  of  the  lady  whom 

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OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

we  are  to  have  the  honour  of  escorting  to 
dinner.  Our  host  and  hostess  expect 
us.  They  are  both  standing  on  the  rug 
beside  the  gas-log  fire,  or  at  the  other 
end  of  the  drawing-room,  under  the 
hired  palms.  We  shake  hands  and  are 
introduced  to  some  one  within  reach, 
—  our  lady  of  the  envelope,  it  may  be, 
or  some  one  else,  —  it  makes  no  differ 
ence  to  the  hostess.  *  Other  guests 
enter ;  half  of  them  —  perhaps  all  of 
them  —  have  never  met  before ;  some 
of  them  never  want  to  meet  again. 

Dinner  is  announced  by  the  drawing 
of  the  curtains,  or  the  profound  bow 
of  the  high-priced  functionary,  and 
we  file  in  and  arrange  ourselves  about  a 
table  that  represents  the  product  of 
half  the  globe.  In  its  centre  is  a  hedge 
of  roses  circled  about  by  candelabra  and 
candle-shades  that  serve  as  an  impene 
trable  screen,  shielding  from  view  your 
host  and  hostess,  with  whom  you  have 

11 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

not  exchanged  half  a  dozen  words,  and 
will  not,  probably,  during  the  whole 
evening.  Conversation  is  restricted 
to  your  fellow  sufferers  on  your  right 
and  left.  This  you  do  impartially  as 
you  can,  the  woman  on  your  right  being 
"  up "  in  literature,  with  a  leaning 
toward  Shelley  and  Keats,  and  the 
woman  on  your  left  loving  nothing  so 
much  as  collie  dogs  and  Angora  cats. 
You  try  to  be  just  in  your  attentions 
and  not  get  the  two  topics  mixed,  but 
the  strain  ruins  your  dinner. 

When  the  last  course  is  served,  you 
rise  with  the  others,  conduct  your 
partner  to  the  drawing-room,  and  are 
shown  by  another  high-priced  function 
ary  into  a  third  room,  where  you  smoke. 

The  conversation  now  extends  to  the 
man  whose  bald  head  you  caught  shin 
ing  between  the  candles,  and  to  the 
gentleman  who  craned  his  head  around 
the  roses  to  speak  to  you.  You  never 


OLD    FASHIONED   FOLK 

met  any  of  them  before,  but  this  only 
enhances  the  excitement. 

When  you  return  to  the  drawing- 
room  you  discover,  to  your  surprise, 
that  a  great  change  has  taken  place  in 
its  interior  fittings.  Where  the  hostess 
received  her  guests  there  has  been 
erected  a  portable  platform  on  which 
are  grouped  a  quartette  of  negro  min 
strels,  or  perhaps  it  supports  a  sleight- 
of-hand  artist,  or  a  comic  singer.  This 
form  of  entertainment  has  been  pro 
vided  in  the  full  knowledge  of  the  fact 
that  you  are  unable  to  entertain  your 
self,  nor  can  any  one  of  your  compan 
ions.  To  ask  you  to  help  entertain  the 
company  would  be  an  unpardonable 
breach  of  good  taste  and  quite  out  of 
the  question,  —  one  which  any  gentle 
man  or  lady  would  resent,  they  not  be 
ing  "  professionals."  At  eleven  o'clock 
your  carriage  is  announced  and  you  go 
home. 

13 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

A  week  later  you  again  ring  the  bell, 
hand  the  butler  your  card,  and  retire. 
The  only  uncomfortable  feeling  you 
have  is  the  fear  of  meeting  some  one 
of  the  family  on  the  front  steps  who 
might  invite  you  in.  The  incident  is 
now  closed. 

Continuing  the  comparisons  along 
these  lines,  let  me  bring  to  your  mind 
the  business  man  of  the  old  days.  One, 
a  man  of  fifty  when  I  knew  him  (I  a  boy 
less  than  twenty),  lived  in  one  of  the 
upper  parts  of  the  town,  and  about  ten 
New  York  blocks  from  his  office.  The 
street  was  like  any  other  city  street,  the 
houses  in  rows  on  both  sides,  in  which 
resided  his  neighbours.  From  the  curb 
in  front  of  this  old-time  mansion,  pro 
tected  by  a  wooden  tree-box,  rose  a 
mighty  elm.  Under  this  elm  stood  his 
saddle-horse  in  the  morning,  when  he 
rode  down  to  his  office,  at  lunch-time 

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OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

and  at  night,  when  he  returned  again. 
This  fact  is  impressed  upon  my  mem 
ory,  for  I  often  rode  the  horse  back  to 
the  stable,  —  a  great  treat  to  me. 

The  house  had  wide  steps,  with  an 
old  colonial  door  and  knocker,  and 
iron  railings  with  brass  knobs.  The 
pavement  was  of  brick;  the  street 
paved  with  cobbles.  In  summer  the 
old  servant  kept  the  bricks  and  cobbles 
wet  with  a  hose,  giving  the  patient  horse 
a  foot-bath  once  in  awhile.  This 
sprinkling  and  drenching  was  to  make 
a  cool  spot  for  the  master  to  sit  in  after 
the  day's  work  was  done,  —  say  five 
o'clock,  rarely  so  late  as  six.  On  his 
dismounting  in  the  late  afternoon  and 
the  horse  taken  to  the  stable,  an  easy 
chair  was  brought  out  and  placed  on 
the  clean,  scoured  steps,  and  later  the 
master  would  appear  in  a  light  seer 
sucker  or  black  alpaca  coat,  —  the  after 
noon  paper  in  his  hand,  —  or  perhaps 

15 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

with  the  arm  of  one  of  his  daughters 
about  his  neck,  she,  dressed  in  white, 
with  some  bit  of  colour  at  her  throat 
and  waist.  Every  passing  neighbour 
stopped  and  had  a  word  either  with 
him  or  the  dear  wife  by  his  side,  or  the 
daughter  —  the  girl's  arm  still  about  her 
father's  neck.  In  those  days  no  one 
was  ashamed  of  wearing  his  heart  on 
his  sleeve. 

Supper  would  soon  be  announced, 
the  front  door  left  wide  open  while  the 
meal  went  on.  After  supper  the  steps 
would  begin  to  fill  up  with  the  visiting 
neighbours  —  for  in  summer  the  front 
steps  were  the  drawing-room;  chairs 
and  cushions  would  then  be  brought 
out,  so  that  even  the  sidewalk  would 
be  covered,  —  some  of  the  older  men 
with  their  chairs  tipped  back  against 
the  tree-box. 

Counting  the  hours  that  he  had  spent 
in  his  office,  —  and  he  had  not  been 

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OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

altogether  five  hours  away  from  his 
home,  —  this  kind  of  business  life 
would  not  make  him  a  millionaire; 
wouldn't  give  him  one- tenth  of  a  mil 
lion;  did  not,  probably,  give  him  one- 
half  of  that  one-tenth ;  but  it  gave  him 
rest  and  the  sweet  repose  of  his  home  and 
time  enough  to  be  gracious  and  hospi 
table  and  courteous  to  every  human 
being  who  sought  his  companionship. 
This  old  fashioned  father  had  time 
for  many  other  things  besides  this  pur 
blind  provincial  business  life  of  his. 
Time  for  a  day's  outing  with  his  sons, 
or  a  long  walk  in  the  country,  if  he 
pleased,  with  his  daughters ;  time  for  a 
rubber  of  whist,  or  a  game  of  chess  in 
the  winter  afternoons,  with  some  crony 
from  across  the  street;  time  for  his 
books,  —  the  whole  family  reading,  — 
the  room  quiet  as  the  library  of  a 
modern  club;  time  to  look  after  the 
purchasing  of  supplies  for  his  house- 

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OLD   FASHIONED    FOLK 

hold,  and  the  care  of  his  servants; 
mindful  of  their  welfare,  being  inter 
ested  in  their  families  and  the  raising 
of  their  children,  even  when  they  left 
him  and  had  homes  of  their  own  out 
side  his  roof.  Time  to  serve  his  city 
and  his  State,  as  juror  or  guardian,  and 
his  church  —  the  older  men  being  ves 
trymen  and  the  younger  serving  in  the 
Sunday  schools.  What  he  lived  for  was 
his  family;  anything  that  might  lead 
him  from  this  object  he  rejected  as  not 
worth  the  price  it  would  cost  him. 

Again  my  restless  search-light  sweeps 
over  the  intermediate  years,  and  again 
I  select  a  contrasting  type,  --a  type 
which  is  increasing  over  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land  as  our  ever  in 
creasing  commercial  supremacy  asserts 
itself. 

This  type  lived  in  a  Western  city, 
where  he  accumulated  forty  millions  of 
dollars,  —  a  man  among  his  fellows,  a 

18 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

power  in  the  commercial  world.  Half 
a  dozen  like  him  could  own  a  State,  — 
would  have  done  so  in  old  baronial 
days,  perhaps  will  yet.  Starting  life  on 
a  farm,  he  had  worked  his  way  up, 
seizing  the  opportunities  offered  every 
American  boy,  and  at  sixty  years  of 
age  was  about  to  drop  into  his  grave 
prematurely  worn  out  in  the  struggle. 
Two  years  before  the  final  collapse  his 
physician  said  to  him : 

"  You  must  stop  work,  or  I  cannot 
answer  for  your  life.  Everything  needs 
rest,  —  heart,  nerves,  brain,  and  body." 

The  millionaire  was  seated  in  his 
office  at  the  time,  from  the  window  of 
which  he  could  overlook  the  yards 
blocked  with  crunching  cars  and  the 
clouds  of  sooty  smoke  rising  from  the 
chimneys,  and  where  every  breath  of 
the  summer  air  was  filled  with  the 
stench  of  boiling  vats. 

"  Give    up    business !     Why,    man, 

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OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

you're  crazy !  What  would  you  have 
me  do?" 

"  Any  one  of  a  dozen  things." 

"  Name  them." 

"  Stock  your  private  car;  get  to 
gether  a  few  of  your  friends,  and  go  out 
West  and  shoot  some  prairie-chickens." 

"  Oh,  that  don't  appeal  to  me.  I 
haven't  had  a  gun  in  my  hands  since  I 
was  a  boy.  Besides,  —  nobody  has 
time  to  go  with  me." 

*  Well,  then,  buy  a  few  hundred 
acres  of  land  and  begin  raising  some 
fine  stock,  —  that's  interesting  for  a 
man  like  you  who  knows  good  cattle, 
and  it  will  be  profitable,  too." 

The  millionaire  tapped  his  desk  with 
the  end  of  his  pencil,  and  said  slowly, 
as  he  looked  out  upon  the  desolate 
yard: 

"  No,  that's  not  in  my  line.  Don't 
want  to  live  in  the  country  —  too 
lonely." 

20 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

The  doctor  leaned  back  in  his  chair, 
thought  a  moment,  and  struck  another 
lead: 

'  Why  not  try  orchids  ?  They  are  a 
most  interesting  study.  Hunt  for  them 
all  over  the  world.  Cost  a  lot  of  money, 
but  you've  got  that." 

"Orchids?     What   are   orchids?" 

"  Rare  tropical  air-plants,  beautiful 
in  colour  and  of  endless  variety.  You've 
seen  them  a  dozen  times  in  the  florists' 
windows,  but  you  may  not  have  noticed 
them  carefully." 

Again  the  pencil  beat  a  tattoo. 

"  That  might  do  for  a  woman,  but  it 
wouldn't  suit  me.  Great  deal  of  trouble 
raising  flowers.  No,  I  guess  not, 
doctor." 

"  Well,  then,  begin  collecting  books 
and  pictures;  you  can  spend  a  million 
in  pictures  very  easy,  and  there  is  noth 
ing  gives  a  man  so  much  pleasure  once 
he  gets  interested  in  collecting." 

21 


OLD    FASHIONED   FOLK 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know  anything  about 
pictures.  Have  to  hire  somebody  to 
pick  'em  out.  Books  are  all  right,  but 
I  never  get  much  time  to  read.  Have 
to":  grow  up  to  that,  and  I've  always 
had  to  work." 

The  doctor  began  pacing  the  floor. 
The  case  was  an  urgent  one;  relief 
from  the  daily  strain  must  come  at  once. 

"  Tell  me,  then,"  he  said,  "  what 
you  do  like  to  do.  You've  got  to 
stop  this.  What  else  will  you  take  up  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  like  to  do,  doctor  ?  I 
like  to  get  up  at  seven  in  the  morning, 
eat  my  breakfast,  read  the  paper  for 
ten  minutes,  get  to  my  office  at  half- 
past  eight,  open  my  letters,  attend  to 
what  business  comes  up,  go  to  the  club 
for  lunch,  back  to  the  office,  and  up 
town.  After  dinner  I  have  a  cigar  and 
go  to  bed.  That's  what  I've  been 
doing  all  my  life;  that's  what  I'm 
accustomed  to,  and  that's  what  I  like." 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

"  Poor  devil !  "  I  said  to  myself,  when 
the  doctor  finished  telling  me  the  story, 
— "  Poor,  miserable,  God-forsaken 
pauper !  Bankrupt  of  everything  in 
life  but  his  balances.  Marley's  ghost 
was  weighed  down  with  fewer  chains, 
cash-boxes,  and  money-bags  than  this 
poor  creature.  Flowers  might  bloom, 
brooks  sing  in  the  sunlight,  cool  winds 
steal  through  silent  forests;  there  was 
fishing  and  hunting,  golf,  horseback- 
riding,  pictures,  books,  curios,  —  any 
number  of  personal  pleasures,  —  not  to 
take  into  account  the  thousand  of  ways 
open  to  him  to  relieve  the  sufferings  of 
the  unfortunate.  None  of  all  that  for 
him !  He  must  continue  to  wear  the 
same  Chinese  shoe  he  had  put  on  when 
a  boy.  It  had  warped  and  stifled  and 
cramped  his  growth ;  slowly  and  grad 
ually  it  had  crushed  every  impulse  out 
side  of  his  daily  task,  and  strangled 
every  taste.  At  twenty  there  was  a 

23 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

buoyancy  in  his  step;  life  was  before 
him;  he  would  make  the  money  fast, 
then  he  would  enjoy  it.  At  thirty  he 
was  still  pegging  away,  —  no  time  for 
pleasure.  At  forty  the  million  came, 
and  with  it  the  craving  for  another. 
At  fifty  his  name  stood  highest  in  the 
Street ;  at  fifty,  also,  he  had  lost  all  his 
earlier  good  intentions.  At  sixty  came 
the  end. 

Never  once  in  all  his  life  had  he  had 
any  fun.  The  newspapers  commented 
on  the  number  of  men  he  had  em 
ployed;  of  the  mouths  he  had  fed;  of 
his  donations  to  current  charities.  One 
critic  ended  a  long  editorial  with  the 
remark:  "  He  was  the  type  of  man 
whose  efforts  have  made  us  the  great 
est  commercial  power  on  the  earth.  Of 
such  is  the  Kingdom  of  America ! " 
Not  one  of  them  made  any  reference 
to  his  whole-souled  cheeriness,  to  his 
buoyant  temperament,  to  his  love  of 

24 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

giving;  to  the  wide  circle  of  intimate 
friends  that  loved  him  for  himself. 
Even  yellow  journalism  stopped  short 
when  they  approached  that  phase  of 
his  career. 

As  for  me,  I  thought  of  the  sons  who 
had  raised  themselves,  —  pretty  bad 
raising  it  was  in  two  instances;  of 
the  wife  he  had  neglected ;  of  the  hours 
wasted  in  filling  a  tin  box  in  a  bank's 
vault,  never  seen  but  twice  a  year, 
when  he  or  his  clerk  cut  off  coupons,  and 
many  of  them  never  taken  from  the 
coffin  holding  his  earlier  aspirations ;  of 
his  narrow,  commonplace,  treadmill 
life,  —  a  life  without  colour  and  totally 
devoid  of  charm. 

This  man,  perhaps,  is  an  extreme 
type,  but  he  is  a  type  that  is  still  held 
in  high  esteem  by  many  of  our  pro 
gressive  young  men.  Not  all  of  these 
would-be  followers  start  out  to  toe- 
mark  his  steps.  Many  of  them  intend 

25 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

to  possess  themselves  of  an  equal 
amount  of  money,  although  determined 
to  lead  a  different  life  in  obtaining  it. 
Thousands  of  our  modern  homes  are 
founded  with  this  idea  in  full  view, 
and  up  to  a  certain  point  the  fathers 
of  these  homes  succeed  in  carrying  out 
these  ideas.  Then  comes  the  many 
temptations  that  beset  a  progressive 
business  man  full  of  energy,  full  of 
brains,  and  full  of  the  initiative.  Grad 
ually  the  hours  of  work  are  lengthened, 
the  brain  is  subjected  to  new  strains ;  the 
much  coveted  financial  position  cannot 
be  reached  except  through  herculean 
efforts  ;  this  directorship,  or  the  control 
of  that  corporation,  or  that  company, 
cannot  pass  into  his  hands  without  this 
or  that  supreme  sacrifice.  The  family 
or  friend  must  wait,  so  must  books  and 
foreign  travel,  and  idle  days  by  the 
brook,  or  with  the  dog  and  gun.  At 
fifty,  he  says  to  himself,  "  I  will 

26 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

soon  be  free  to  do  as  I  please,  —  the 
girls  and  the  boys,  or  the  wife  and  I 
will  have  our  fun  then."  When  the 
strain  becomes  more  tense  and  some 
small  strand  in  his  rope  snaps,  —  his 
nerves,  or  his  brain,  or  his  lungs,  — 
he  will  stop  and  look  about  him.  To 
his  horror  he  is  in  a  quicksand  up  to  his 
neck,  the  blue  sky  above  him,  just 
where  it  has  always  been,  the  green 
fields  about  him,  the  birds  singing, — 
but,  and  here  is  the  pity  of  it,  —  every 
thing  is  out  of  his  reach  except  the 
mud  he  clings  to  and  which  is  slowly 
engulfing  him  !  One  consolation  is  his, 
and  one  only,  —  the  tin  box  at  the 
bank  is  full. 

What  pitfalls  would  he  have  avoided 
in  life,  had  he  been  so  fortunate  as  to 
have  had  one  of  those  old  fashioned 
mothers,  and,  better  still,  had  he  lis 
tened  to  her  advice,  as  did  a  lad  in  an 
old  fashioned  town,  who  went  to  work 

27 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

when  he  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  and 
whom  I  knew  when  I  was  a  boy.  His 
father's  money  having  given  out  at 
the  time  the  boy  was  getting  ready 
for  college,  this  lad  took  a  position  at 
fifty  dollars  a  year. 

His  work  was  the  tying  up  of  iron 
rods,  marking  boxes  of  hardware,  pack 
ing  shovels  and  scythes,  rolling  them 
out  on  the  sidewalk,  and  helping  load 
them  on  the  drays  that  carried  them  to 
the  steamboats  and  railroad  stations. 
In  the  busy  season,  —  that  is,  in  the 
spring  and  fall,  —  the  boy  got  up  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was  at  the 
store  at  seven,  and  returned  home  often 
as  late  as  midnight.  In  the  summer  and 
winter  he  worked  only  from  nine  until 
five. 

The  boy  and  the  boy's  mother  were 
chums  —  had  been  chums  for  years, 
ever  since  the  boy  began  to  talk.  The 
mother  understood  the  boy  and  the  boy 

28 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

understood  the  mother.  She  got  out 
of  bed  when  the  boy  got  up,  sat  by  him 
while  he  ate  his  breakfast,  and  never 
closed  her  eyes  until  he  came  home, 
no  matter  how  late,  then  she  kissed 
him  good-night. 

The  harder  he  worked  the  better  the 
mother  liked  it,  and  the  better  she  loved 
him.  He  had  been  lazy  and  inclined 
to  be  luxurious,  his  home  affording 
him  all  the  comforts.  He  was  also  a 
little  proud  and  sometimes  put  on  airs 
of  superiority,  and  at  heart  was  con 
ceited.  Moreover,  he  seemed  to  have 
a  certain  definite  taste  for  music;  this 
last  the  mother  did  not  encourage,  — 
not  while  he  was  yet  a  boy.  The  hard 
work  took  these  imperfections  out  of 
him  as  a  sweat  clears  the  pores  of  im 
purity.  The  mother  watched  the  proc 
ess,  and  a  new  song  rose  in  her  heart. 

When  the  end  of  the  first  year  came, 
it  was  in  July  and  in  the  dull  season, 

29 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

his  salary,  as  was  the  custom  in  those 
days,  was  paid  in  one  lump  —  fifty 
dollars,  all  in  good  bank-notes.  The 
boy  smoothed  the  money  out  on  his 
knee,  rolled  the  bills  together,  tucked 
the  wad  into  his  inside  pocket,  but 
toned  his  jacket  close,  and  went  home 
to  see  his  mother,  —  on  his  toes  !  whis 
tling  as  if  he  had  caught  a  rabbit  and 
couldn't  wait  until  he  had  told  some 
body. 

The  mother  was  waiting  at  the  front 

door.      She   had   seen   him   from    the 

window   skipping   along,   his   face   all 

aflame    with    joy,    and    she    instantly 

divined  the  cause.     Putting  her  arms 

about  him,  she  led  him  into  her  room : 

"  Have  they  paid  you,  my  boy  ?  " 

'  Yes,  fifty  whole  dollars ;    look  at 

it,"  and  he  laid  the  roll  of  bills  in  her 

hand. 

"  Aren't  you  proud,  my  son  ?  " 
'  Yes."     The  boy's   eyes  snapped. 

30 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

This  mother  was  a  wise  woman; 
she  knew  the  boy  and  the  boy's  nature. 
He  was  a  plant  she  had  nurtured,  giv 
ing  him  sunshine  and  shade  as  he 
thrived  best.  She  knew,  too,  his  tastes, 
—  those  born  in  him  and  as  yet  dor 
mant.  These  he  might  develop  later 
in  life,  but  not  now  when  his  character 
was  forming,  so  she  continued  to  look 
into  his  eyes,  his  hand  in  hers,  and  as 
the  boy  hesitated  she  repeated  the 
question : 

'  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it, 
son?" 

'  Well,  mother,  I  don't  exactly  know. 
I've  had  a  hard  winter's  work,  and  I'm 
pretty  tired  out.  I  think,  if  you'll  let 
me,  I'd  like  to  have  a  holiday." 

"Where  will  you  go?"  She  still 
held  his  hand,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his. 

*  Well,  I've  never  been  away  from 
home.  I'd  like  to  run  over  to  Wash- 
31 


OLD    FASHIONED   FOLK 

ington  and  see  the  Capitol;  then  I'd 
like  to  go  up  into  Carroll  County  and 
stay  with  the  old  farmer  who  brings 
us  butter/' 

"  Will  they  let  you  go  at  the  store  ?  " 

"  Yes,  for  two  weeks." 

"  Go,  my  son,  —  go  and  give  your 
self  a  trip.  That's  what  money  is  for. 
You've  worked  for  it,  and  it's  yours; 
don't  worry  if  you  spend  every  cent  of 
it.  Pack  your  things  and  start  to 
morrow." 

The  lad  has  grown  up,  and  the  dear 
mother  is  with  the  angels,  but  the 
words  still  ring  in  the  boy's  ears.  They 
shaped  and  dominated  his  whole  life. 
"  Give  yourself  a  trip,  my  son."  Not, 
put  it  away  in  the  bank,  or  loan  it  out 
at  interest,  or  buy  yourself  a  gun  or  a 
new  suit  of  clothes  or  a  toy,  —  "  Give 
yourself  a  trip."  In  your  journey 
through  life  work  with  all  your  might; 

32 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

then,  when  the  year  is  up,  take  part  of 
your  pay,  —  all  of  it,  if  necessary,  — 
and  enjoy  the  things  which  the  good 
God  has  given  you  free  of  cost  —  the 
blue  skies,  singing  brooks,  cool,  silent 
forest;  lie  on  the  grass,  sleep,  swim, 
get  saturated  with  the  open;  then,  re 
freshed,  illumined,  and  made  over  new, 
go  back  to  your  work  again. 

The  advice  I  know  is  against  the 
trend  of  the  times. 

'  You  want  a  week  off,  do  you,  young 
man  ?  "  said  a  dried  codfish  with  a 
backbone  of  red  tape.  "  Do  you  know 
that  I've  been  in  charge  of  this  business 
for  forty-three  years  and  never  yet 
took  a  holiday  ?  " 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense,  this  going 
away  for  a  rest !  "  answered  a  million 
aire,  —  many  times  a  millionaire.  "  I 
can  always  be  found  at  my  office,  sir, 
—  every  day  in  the  year." 

He  could  be,  —  I  found  him  there 

33 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

myself,  sitting  at  a  fifteen-dollar  desk, 
behind  a  wooden  partition  in  which 
was  cut  a  small  square  hole.  On  the 
desk  before  him  lay  a  second-hand 
envelope,  one  turned  inside  out;  he 
never  wasted  anything.  On  this  he 
was  recording  with  the  stub  of  a  pencil 
the  "  puts  and  calls  "  he  was  hourly 
trading  in,  the  records  of  which  were 
being  dropped  in  through  the  square 
hole  in  the  partition.  It  was  August, 
I  remember;  the  leaves  of  the  half- 
starved  trees  in  the  churchyard  next 
his  office  hung  limp.  The  air  was  dead, 
almost  unbreathable ;  the  asphalt 
showed  the  indent  of  tire  and  horse 
shoe.  The  doctrine  of  "  Take  a  trip, 
my  son,"  had  never  been  preached  to 
this  machine  man.  "  Keep  at  work  and 
save  it !  Keep  at  work  and  save  it ! 
Lay  it  up  for  a  rainy  day !  "  was  what 
he  had  heard  from  his  boyhood  up. 
As  if  a  rainy  day  could  ever  come  to  a 

34 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

live,  alert,  clear-brained,  able-bodied, 
healthy  American  boy. 

The  advice  of  this  old-fashioned 
mother  translated  into  a  modern  phrase 
might  read,  "  Work,  earn  money,  and 
play."  The  play  covers  a  wide  range. 
What  it  shall  be  depends  upon  your 
tastes.  It  may  be  reading  and  collecting 
of  books,  or  a  love  for  beautiful  curios, 
the  pursuit  of  music,  the  making  of 
pictures,  or  the  modelling  of  statues. 
Or  it  may  reach  out  along  the  line  of 
scientific  research.  But  whatever  your 
hand  finds  to  do  in  these  directions, 
and  whatever  your  soul  loves  best,  hold 
on  to  it,  and  in  the  holding  on  don't 
fail  to  give  the  earning  of  money  its 
proper  share;  but  don't  give  it  one 
iota  more,  or  you  rob  yourself  of  your 
just  rights.  As  a  man  needs  one- 
third  of  the  twenty-four  hours  in  which 
to  sleep,  so  he  needs  one-third  of  the 
year  for  play.  He  can  take  it  in  a 

35 


OLD    FASHIONED   FOLK 

lump  by  a  trip  abroad,  or  he  can  take  it 
from  Friday  until  Monday  every  week 
in  the  year,  but  let  him  take  it;  let 
him  insist  upon  it,  let  him  fight  ior  it 
if  need  be. 

This  will  often  entail  sacrifices.  A 
four  months'  trip  every  year  is  often  an 
expensive  outing  for  a  business  man,  not 
for  what  it  costs,  but  for  what  is  lost 
at  home  by  his  going.  This  rises  up 
as  an  obstacle;  sometimes  it  appears 
insurmountable.  Stop,  then,  and  hold 
a  consultation  with  yourself.  Say  to 
yourself:  This  year  is  but  one  of  the 
many  of  my  life ;  in  the  average  it  will 
not  count.  If  I  break  the  rule  of  my 
going,  I  break  the  spell  of  the  pleasure 
of  going,  and  worse  than  all,  it  makes 
it  the  harder  to  get  away  the  next  year. 
Here  comes  the  supreme  test,  —  a  test 
which  so  many  of  our  young  business 
men  fail  to  pass  even  when  they  have 
determined  to  carry  out  this  new  theory 

36 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

of  work  and  play.  So  they  hesitate  and 
are  lost.  Shake  yourself  up  with  an  out 
ing  every  month,  if  need  be,  or  you  may 
wake  up  some  day  to  find  yourself 
behind  a  partition  scribbling  away  on 
the  back  of  an  envelope,  the  ther 
mometer  at  ninety,  and  you  worth  one 
hundred  and  eighty  millions  of  dollars. 

The  time  to  begin,  however,  is  not 
when  your  mould  is  set,  but  when  that 
first  money  is  earned,  —  your  first 
money;  and  the  first  outing  was  pos 
sible,  not  when  you  are  lashed  fast 
to  your  habits  and  to  your  gold, — 
gray,  shrivelled,  out  of  touch  with  the 
world  and  the  world  out  of  touch  with 
you. 

"  Take  a  trip,  my  son !  Take  a 
trip!" 

This  habit  of  enforced  play  will  not 
hurt  the  American  boy.  Slothfulness 
is  not  characteristic  of  our  lads.  Money 
is  too  easy  to  make  and  success  too 

37 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

alluring.  Even  the  newsboys  that  grow 
up  between  the  cobbles  have  opportuni 
ties  and  futures  greater  than  some 
princes  of  the  blood.  What  is  more  to 
be  feared  is  that  they  will  become  so 
inoculated  with  the  poison  of  money 
as  to  destroy  their  taste  for  everything 
except  the  pecuniary  rewards  it  brings. 

Let  us  drop  the  mother  and  her 
teachings  and  again  revert  to  the  old 
fashioned  father.  Is  there  nothing  in 
his  personality  and  his  business  meth 
ods,  —  a  life  laughed  at  and  despised 
by  many  a  "  Hustler "  (admirable 
word)  of  to-day,  —  which  we  can  fol 
low  ?  Was  his  life  a  dull  one,  according 
to  the  best  ideals  of  the  best-thinking 
minds,  or  is  his  life  and  that  of  his 
family  dull  only  to  us  of  to-day,  and  if 
so,  what  has  brought  us  to  believe  that 
our  present  ideals,  exemplified  in  hurry 
and  hustle  and  what  is  called  "  up-to- 

38 


OLD    FASHIONED   FOLK 

dateness,"  is  the  true  formula  by  which 
we  can  obtain  happiness  and  the  one 
the  world  should  live  by? 

Take  his  courtesy,  for  instance, — 
a  courtesy  which  was  part  of  his  educa- 
cation,  —  studied,  perhaps,  from  his 
father  before  him  and  practised  in  all 
its  details,  that  he  might  hand  it  down 
to  his  son.  No  business  in  life  was  too 
important  to  necessitate  the  suspension 
of  these  courtesies.  They  were  his 
personal  right  as  well  as  they  were  his 
friends'.  To  be  forgetful  of  them  hurt 
the  man  offending  more  than  the  man 
slighted.  For  these  were  the  times 
when  men  raised  their  hats  and  stood 
with  bared  heads  before  men  as  well 
as  women.  Such  elaborate  courtesies 
are  laughed  at  to-day,  —  "  a  man  of 
the  old  school,"  we  sometimes  say,  and 
smile  with  a  certain  inward  pity  at  the 
old  fellow  so  behind  the  times,  and  so 
far  from  being  up-to-date.  We  of 

39 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

to-day  have  got  better  sense  than  to  keep 
a  busy  man  standing  to  listen  to  well- 
meant  inquiries  about  the  people  at 
home,  or  his  affairs.  What  he  wants  is 
a  nod  and  a  word,  or  just  a  silent  bob 
of  the  head,  or  the  touch  of  a  hat-brim 
with  one's  forefinger.  You  haven't 
any  more  time,  and  he  hasn't  any  more 
time.  The  greatest  courtesy  you  can 
show  him  is  to  let  him  alone.  When 
he  wants  to  see  you  he  will  appoint  a 
time,  —  at  dinner  with  ten  other  men 
you  never  saw  before,  or  at  the  Club, 
where  he  will  order  the  cocktails,  or  at 
his  office,  where  he  will  listen  to  you 
with  one  ear,  the  other  given  to  his 
clerks  whispering  the  fluctuations  of 
the  market.  It  is  in  this  way  that  we 
console  ourselves  for  a  lack  of  what  in 
the  old  days  would  be  looked  upon  as 
but  common  decencies. 

And  yet,  excuse  it  as  we  may,  the 
fact  still  remains  that  we  live  in  an  age 

40 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

of  bad  manners,  —  or,  to  be  closer  to 
the  fact,  that  we  live  in  an  age  of  no 
manners  at  all.  Nor  is  it  confined  to 
any  one  class.  A  woman  in  diamonds 
and  laces,  chattering  in  her  opera  box, 
thus  robbing  everybody  around  her 
of  the  price  they  have  paid  for  their 
seats,  is  no  less  a  vulgarian  than  the 
man  who  crowds  a  working-girl  in  a 
street-car,  or  the  conductor  who  up 
braids  her  because  she  doesn't  move 
up  or  get  off  or  on  to  suit  him. 

Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  with  these 
old  standards  gone  and  this  new  selfish 
independence  and  self-assertive  vulgar 
ity  taking  its  place,  that  even  our  serv 
ants  and  working  people  should  look 
upon  the  commonest  civility  as  be 
neath  their  dignity  and  importance,  — 
or  that  the  foreigner  just  landed  be 
comes  equally  boorish.  It  takes  less 
than  thirty  days  to  turn  a  modest,  re 
spectful,  obedient  servant-girl,  just 

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OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

landed  from  a  ship,  into  a  person  of 
such  importance  that  she  dares  not 
be  polite  for  fear  she  will  be  considered 
a  greenhorn.  Indeed,  extreme  courte- 
ousness  is  in  some  of  our  so-called 
higher  circles  considered  a  sign  of 
social  inferiority. 

'  They  were  from  out  of  town,"  a 
young  married  woman  said  at  a  lunch 
eon,  "  and  so  polite.  Why,  they  over 
whelmed  me  with  their  kindness." 

"  Couldn't  have  been  anybody,"  re 
marked  her  companion.  "  I'm  always 
suspicious  of  people  who  are  too  po 
lite." 

"  I  never  take  off  my  hat  to  any  man," 
said  a  Western  drummer  to  me  in  a 
smoking-car.  "  I'm  as  good  as  any 
body,  and  he's  as  good  as  me.  What's 
the  use  of  being  a  dude  ?  " 

"  If  you  please,  does  this  train  go  to 
Boston  ? "  asked  a  misguided,  old 
fashioned  gentleman  (I  was  the  O.  F. 

42 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

gentleman)  in  the  Providence  depot,  of 
a  bebuttoned  and  becapped  official. 

"  Naw,"  blurted  out  the  paid  servant 
of  the  corporation,  —  paid  to  be  cour 
teous  as  well  as  efficient. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  at  what  hour  it 
will  arrive  ?  " 

"  Naw  —  ask  him,"  and  he  jerked 
his  head  in  the  direction  of  another 
Chesterfield. 

"  Say,  but  don't  get  dizzy  over  it," 
said  a  man  in  a  smoking-car  to  another 
who  had  inadvertently  blown  the  ashes 
from  his  cigar  into  his  companion's 
face.  "  That's  all  right ;  you  didn't 
mean  it,  and  there  ain't  no  use  'polo- 
gizing." 

"  But  there  is,"  answered  the  un 
conscious  offender  (it  was  another 
O.  F.  G.  this  time,  not  I),  "  I  apologize 
not  only  for  your  sake  but  for  mine. 
I  would  be  most  uncomfortable  if  I 
thought  I  had  been  rude  to  you  and  had 

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OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

not  made  amends."  It  was  a  new 
doctrine  to  the  man  who  got  the  ashes 
in  his  face. 

How  many  hot-boxes  would  be 
avoided,  how  much  friction  lessened, 
and  how  much  smoother  and  pleasanter 
would  be  our  lives,  if  more  of  this  kind 
of  oil  was  poured  on  our  axles. 

That  this  almost  universal  insolence 
is  due  in  a  great  measure  to  a  mistaken 
idea  as  to  what  constitutes  American 
freedom,  does  not  help  the  situation. 
And  it  is  not  confined  to  our  work 
ing  people.  They  are,  in  fact,  often 
more  polite  than  their  richer  country 
men. 

Who,  then,  I  ask,  will  furnish  us  with 
a  standard  of  manners  when  these  old- 
time  gentlemen  are  all  gone,  —  and 
they  are  fast  passing  away  ?  Certainly 
not  that  millionaire  of  the  Western  city, 
nor  his  sons,  nor  his  intimates  and  as 
sociates.  Will  civility  and  courtesy, 

44 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

gentle  talk  and  witty  conversation, 
self-effacement  (never  speaking  of  your 
own  affairs,  but  always  of  your  friend's) 
be  entirely  a  thing  of  the  past,  or  will 
we  ever  return  to  the  standards  of  our 
fathers  ? 

The  amazing  thing  in  the  situation 
is  the  patience  of  the  populace,  or  shall 
I  say  the  feebleness  of  their  protests, 
not  only  against  these  vulgarities,  but 
against  all  the  ills  that  modern  civiliza 
tion  has  brought  upon  us.  When  they 
do  speak  out,  it  is,  nine  times  out  of 
ten,  only  in  the  form  of  regret,  followed 
by  an  acquiescence  and  ending  in  the 
acceptance  of  the  new  conditions  with 
out  further  murmur.  They  not  only 
willingly  He  in  the  bed  they  have  made, 
but  they  eat  the  cake  of  fraud  with 
equanimity,  no  matter  what  it  contains. 
That  many  of  the  magnates  of  to-day 
adulterate  their  baking-powder  with 
ground  rock,  their  butter  with  lard, 

45 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

their  raspberry  jam  with  gelatine  and 
aniline  dyes,  and  even  their  early 
spring  peas,  fresh  from  the  can,  with 
copperas,  is,  of  course,  a  cause  of  regret 
to  some  of  us,  but  nobody  seems  anx 
ious  to  break  the  head  of  the  manu 
facturer  who  profits  by  the  fraud, 
though  he  poisons  us  and  our  families. 
Better  leave  it  to  the  legislature  and  an 
investigating  committee. 

Returning  again  to  the  modern  mil 
lionaire  and  more  particularly  to  the 
use  to  which  he  puts  his  millions,  permit 
me  to  call  your  attention  to  what 
occurred  in  a  neighbouring  city,  where, 
until  a  few  months  ago,  there  existed 
a  small  hotel,  —  small  for  the  mam 
moth  structures  of  to-day,  but  large  in 
comparison  with  the  hotels  of  fifty  years  * 
ago.  In  the  appointment  of  its  cafes, 
bar,  bedrooms,  drawing-rooms,  in 
its  cuisine,  the  quality  of  its  wines, 

46 


OLD   FASHIONED   FOLK 

cigars,  and  its  service  and  conveniences, 
this  small  hotel  stood  alone  as  pre 
eminently  the  best  hostelry  of  its  kind, 
or  of  any  other  kind,  here  or  abroad. 
I  make  this  statement  knowingly,  after 
personal  knowledge  of  most  of  the 
hotels  both  in  our  own  country  and  in 
Europe.  In  addition  to  these  com 
forts, —  including  every  appliance  which 
the  sanitary  engineer  or  the  electrician 
could  furnish,  —  there  was  about  the 
old  place  that  which  money  could  not 
buy:  a  peculiar  polish  to  the  old  ma 
hogany  tables  and  chairs,  a  certain 
delicious  smokiness  about  the  cafe,  and 
a  cosy  restfulness  which  endeared  it 
self  to  hundreds  of  its  patrons  the  world 
over.  This  patronage  was  liberal  and 
generous;  had  been  continued  for 
years  by  those  who  were  able  to  pay 
the  highest  prices  for  what  they  wanted ; 
and  the  business  in  consequence  be 
came  a  financial  success,  —  so  much  so 

47 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

that  it  was  difficult  to  get  a  room,  even 
if  ordered  a  week  in  advance. 

On  the  adjoining  corner  there  stood 
another  hotel,  —  a  large,  imposing 
structure,  five  times  as  big  as  the 
smaller  and  older  one,  although  both 
were  under  the  same  management. 
No  habitue  of  the  latter  ever  entered 
the  larger  one  if  it  was  possible  to  get 
into  the  smaller;  they  loved  the  old 
place,  and  it  loved  them.  With  the 
building  of  a  monster  structure  in  New 
York,  —  also  under  the  same  manage 
ment,  —  some  new  ideas  popped  into 
the  heads  of  the  owners  of  these  prop 
erties.  They  began  to  make  figures 
on  the  backs  of  envelopes.  These 
proved  that  if  a  hotel  with  thirty  rooms 
and  one  elevator  could  earn  ten  per 
cent  on  one- third  of  a  million  dollars, 
a  hotel  with  three  hundred  rooms  and 
four  elevators  could  earn  twenty  per 
cent  on  five  millions. 

48 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

Plans  were  accordingly  drawn  and 
contracts  were  let.  Presto !  Down 
comes  the  larger  hotel,  up  goes  another 
monster  in  its  place,  on  the  same  site, 
and  precisely  like  all  the  other  mon 
strosities  in  the  large  cities  the  world 
over,  —  gilt,  glare,  electric  dazzle, 
palms,  stuffy  carpets,  stuffy  lounges, 
portieres,  hangings,  and  department 
store  bric-a-brac.  Click !  Bang !  and 
up  you  go  fourteen  stories. 

This  conglomerate  mass  of  discom 
fort  complete,  the  little  hotel  closed  its 
doors,  and  the  patrons  of  years  went 
out  in  the  cold,  and  will  stay  out,  for 
its  like  will  never,  never  come  again. 

Why?  I  ask.  What  for?  What  good 
has  come  of  it  ?  What  part  of  the  human 
body  is  better  taken  care  of  in  the  new 
than  in  the  old?  Where  comes  the 
benefit  ? 

'  What  good  has  come  of  it  all,  do 
you  ask,  my  dear  sir  ?  "  they  answer  in 

49 


OLD    FASHIONED   FOLK 

the  peculiar  vernacular  of  our  time. 
How  absurd  the  question !  '  This  is 
an  age  of  progress ;  we  are  put  here  to 
expand,  and  we  will  expand  if  we  have 
to  build  hotels  so  high  that  their  roofs 
are  lost  in  a  blue  haze.  Traditions, 
reverence  for  old  things,  love  of  a  quiet 
life,  are  out-of-date.  Down  with  that 
old-fashioned  nonsense !  Turn  on  an 
other  burner,  —  a  million  burners  if 
necessary.  Start  a  band,  —  two  bands, 
—  one  all  strings  and  the  other  all 
brass;  keep  them  pounding  away  so 
that  not  a  soul  in  the  dining-room  can 
hear  themselves  speak;  crowd  in  fifty 
second-hand  canvasses  in  expensive 
gold  frames;  hang  them  under  the 
blazing  bulbs;  put  everybody  in  uni 
form;  bring  in  the  telegraph  stations, 
post-offices,  ticket  agencies,  and  let 
her  go!  We've  got  the  bulge  on  the 
universe,  and  don't  you  forget  it !  We 
are  it!  " 

50 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

We  may  well  ask  ourselves  then  the 
question,  Will  those  wholesome  days 
ever  come  back?  No,  I  answer,  not 
while  we  keep  up  the  pace  at  which  we 
are  moving.  But  if  they  ever  do  I  say 
to  you  in  all  sincerity,  it  must  be  through 
that  fresh  crop  of  young  men  who  year 
after  year  leave  our  colleges  and  schools, 
and  in  whose  keeping  rests  the  future 
of  our  country.  Only  with  their  help 
can  the  water  be  turned  back  into  the 
old  channels,  back  to  a  clearer  un 
derstanding  of  what  life  really  means, 
to  the  courtesy  of  the  old  days,  with 
a  better  recognition  of  what  the  other 
fellow  is  entitled  to,  not  as  his  right  so 
much  as  our  own.  Back  to  the  rever 
ence  for  old  age,  —  the  son  helping  the 
father  first  and  himself  afterwards,  — 
an  almost  unheard-of  thing  nowadays, 
—  forgetting  the  long  hours  the  old 
man  worked  to  keep  him  clothed  and 
fed.  Back  to  a  higher  appreciation  of 

51 


OLD    FASHIONED    FOLK 

women,  —  of  their  conditions,  of  their 
struggles  for  bread,  of  their  daily  fight 
for  place  among  the  competitors  who 
begrudge  them  their  bare  existence. 
Back  to  a  sense  of  justice  toward 
children,  —  a  willingness  to  give  them 
the  short  play-time  of  their  lives,  filling 
their  frail  fingers  with  flowers  instead  of 
spindles. 

The  old  fashioned  folk  stood  for  all 
these  things  fifty  years  ago.  They  were 
poor  compared  with  the  rich  of  to-day, 

—  of  little  influence  in  corporations,  of 
less  in  matters  of  manufacture,  but  they 
were    courteous,  just   to    their   fellow 
men,   simple  in  their  tastes,  loyal  to 
their    old  fashioned    ideas  of   honesty 
between   man    and   man;    gallant    to 
their  women,  sparing  of  their  children, 

—  and  above  all  else  possessed  of  that 
priceless  jewel  —  CONTENTMENT. 


OF  THIS  FIEST  EDITION  OF  OLD 
FASHIONED  FOLK,  BY  F.  HOPKINSON 
SMITH,  SEVEN  HUNDKED  AND  FIFTY 
COPIES,  OF  WHICH  FIFTY  COPIES  ARE 
RESERVED  FOR  PRIVATE  DISTRIBUTION, 
HAVE  BEEN  PRINTED  FROM  TYPE  UPON 
ENGLISH  HANDMADE  PAPER  AT  THE 
COLONIAL  PRESS,  BOSTON,  DURING  THE 
MONTH  OF  APRIL,  1907. 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


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